Jace, the Blight Sculptor 
Choose Your Own Alara
You wake up in an iron-barred cell. Sunlight streams through an opening in the ceiling and through the slits in the wall. The floor is so clean you could eat off of it. You hear a distant angelic choir singing in the distance. You hate choir music.
“Well, I’m still in Bant,” you think to yourself. “And I’ve been Bant.”
You try to remember the last thing you can remember. You were on your way to visit your prick cousin Rafiq in Eos in order to borrow some sigils to pay your rent back in Jhess. Along the way, as you passed through the Mosaa Marketplace, you noticed a suspicious looking fellow quietly conferring with a towering dragon from which emanated malevolence and power beyond all reckoning. They were clearly up to something suspicious.
That’s when the dragon met your gaze. The next thing you knew, you felt your mind being pulled through space, time and death, through hellish voids and uncomfortably crowd parties, pulled to a distant land known as Grixis. The name of the place echoed in your brain. You knew this was an evil place, otherwise it would be named Shalasha or something. It stank of non-Bantery, writhed with the withered wizardry of wilted wills, gave you a headache.
But nothing compared to the headache you have now.
What do you do?
– Yell to the guard for a some ibuprofenmancy.
– Try to climb out of the skylight.
